Snapshots
by Writings of Stardust
Summary: What happened while Holly visited Russ with Brennan? What happened when she and Booth had lunch on Assateague Island? What was her first visit to Hodgins' lab like? What about that dinner Booth scheduled with his friend at the VA? How did Holly find out Brennan's a licensed foster parent? Loosely-connected one-shots set in the It's My Life universe that didn't fit in the story.
1. Chapter 1

**_Flirting Advice_**

 **Summary: Zach asks the wrong (or the right) people for help flirting with Naomi, Hodgins is absolutely no help whatsoever, and the "lesson" ends better than Holly had thought it would.**

 **Timeframe: Set very early on in "It's My Life," somewhere between 'The Man in the SUV' and 'The Boy in the Tree.'**

Brennan had some pretty interesting books. She also had some really dry ones that were as thick as my hand, but for the most part, her novels were interesting, even if they weren't written by her. In the time between cases and while I still had to have supervision, I was enjoying my time in the lab by reading from her collection. The only issue was that I had to stay close to an employee who could keep an official eye on me, so while she was out at a meeting with her publisher, I had to venture out of her office and stick near Hodgins.

Where Hodgins went, Zach wasn't very far away. I jammed a chair into the corner of the Medico-Legal platform and sat down with my back to the edge, tucking myself in neatly and putting my feet up on a secondary chair to the side. I cracked the book open and held it against my thighs, and every couple of minutes, I'd spare a look up as I turned the page. I needed to know if someone moved, just so I wouldn't have any surprises. Hodgins had brought his work with him to a desk on the other side of the platform, and Zach was sitting at a computer monitor several yards away from me, staring with intent focus at the screen.

I could've stayed at the FBI building just as easily, but something about being there put me off. There were still agents who would talk about me, look at me, and speculate about my personal life, what I was like, how I grew up. Most of them did it behind my back in what I'm sure they thought was an act of courtesy, but it only made me more paranoid. They were still interested in that I shot Thompson, that I chased Masruk, and one badly-timed comment about how Booth's shot at the terrorist ended with the man's blood on me left him fetching coffee for the agents on that floor for the rest of the day. Although Booth had successfully proved a point about talking about his own actions, this was perceived as a defense of me. While a lot of the agents did get the message that our lives weren't for gossip fodder, there were still some who didn't know how to stow their curiosities, and it made me feel defensive and out-of-place. At the lab, it was quiet, it was brightly-lit, there were big security guards within shouting distance, and none of the Medico-Legal team assigned to Booth seemed to care anymore about what had happened in the past.

I tried to stay riveted on the book, but it was hard to do when Zach just became increasingly more obvious about his distractedness. The longer he went without doing anything, the more bothered I became. What was he doing within close range of me that wasn't visible? Then, after that paranoid question, I got a little worried that maybe he was having some distressing realization. Maybe he was having a small seizure. I felt like I owed it to them to at least make sure nothing was wrong.

"What's up with you?" I asked suddenly, shutting the book with my finger still between the pages to mark the spot.

Hodgins glanced up when I started talking with no warning, but quickly saw that everything was calm and went back to his computer. Zach's squinted eyes strained to read the computer (or whatever he was imagining right in front of his face). The grad student paused before he answered, as if weighing how to word his issues.

"Naomi told me I should flirt more," Zach shared slowly, staring critically in the direction of his computer. I rolled my eyes and sank back into my corner. _Of course, it's also entirely possible he's just being strange._ "… But I don't know how."

"Back up," I held up an open hand. "Naomi?"

"My girlfriend," Zach answered distractedly, not looking at me.

Hodgins made a loud, derisive snort where he was working. _Eavesdropper,_ I accused mentally. The entomologist pushed his chair away from his desk and swiveled the seat around to face our direction. " _Sort-of_ girlfriend," he corrected, making eye contact with me and excluding Zach. "She's his on-off, possessive, irritable female colleague who uses him as a booty call and says they're dating because it sounds nicer." He glanced at Zach's profile sympathetically. I understood pretty quickly that Hodgins didn't exactly like the woman Zach chose to keep company with.

Zach acted like he didn't hear his friend say anything. My eyes went between Hodgins and Zach carefully, trying to determine as much as I could before I said anything about someone else's personal life. What Zach got up to in the privacy of his or his 'girlfriend's' bedroom was none of my business, but I could see why Hodgins didn't like Naomi, if she called them something they weren't for her own sake. If Zach thought that they were dating, but Naomi just thought he was convenient for… _other purposes,_ then it might just be a matter of time before a miscommunication ended in some hurt feelings. In my opinion, people should call each other what they are, not put nice bows on top of things to make them look grand. There's nothing shameful about sex, but you _should_ feel bad if you lead someone on for your own peace of mind. On that note, if Naomi didn't feel comfortable admitting what she was doing with Zach, then maybe she wasn't mature enough or ready to be doing it at all.

And that wasn't even getting into the adjectives Hodgins had used. Possessive? Depending on what he meant, that could mean she wanted a monogamous relationship (although, from what I'd observed of him, Hodgins wasn't the womanizing type to apply that request to 'possessiveness'), or it could mean she tried to control who Zach was friends with. Again, it wasn't my place to comment, and I didn't _really_ want to get involved; I had to assume that he was smart enough to get out of a toxic relationship, and that he had friends to help him if he needed it. I was some loser hanging around their lab for a short time, so I was not the person to be discussing relationship issues with.

Still… I went back to Zach's and Hodgins' differing descriptions of Naomi (whoever she really was). "You're cool with that?" I asked Zach skeptically.

"There is mutual benefit from our relationship," he answered with a puzzled frown, finally taking his eyes away from his computer. He looked like I'd asked a really dumb question. I couldn't get why someone would voluntarily be with another person who didn't agree on what they were to each other. If you're not looking for the same things, then what's the point?

Hodgins smiled sarcastically at Zach, then met eyes with me again. "Last month, she called him a disabled monkey because he didn't return her call in an hour." Rolling my eyes, I cracked my book back open and arched my back, stretching out my spine before settling back into my corner to read some more. Hodgins was trying to include me, which I appreciated, but I wasn't part of the team; I didn't need to be privy to the jokes and experiences they'd shared with each other.

"I was busy!" Zach defended himself, holding his shoulders higher.

"I'm not saying _you're_ the crazy one here." Hodgins' placating tone was exchanged for a teasing one when he smirked and said, "Savor the moment," implying that it didn't happen all too often.

Zach let it go. Most people would've retorted, but the intern just… it wasn't even that he 'let it slide,' he just didn't even care enough to respond directly to that prod. "How do I learn to flirt?" He wondered thoughtfully, sounding honestly bewildered. _Someone's never heard of Google._ I scolded myself for still paying attention, forcing myself to focus on the ink on the crisp white paper.

Hodgins chuckled. "You give up hope," he snickered delightedly, "Because I'll believe it when I see it. And then I'll ask who you are and what you've done with Zach."

I hadn't had so much difficulty understanding a book's content since struggling through AP Chemistry. The few trips I'd made to Hodgins lab had made me immensely grateful that I'd trudged through that class and come out with an A, because without the foundational knowledge, I would probably be hopelessly lost. Although it was frustrating not to know immediately what the book was trying to tell me, it was an academic challenge, the likes of which I hadn't had in a while.

I was getting lost in the refresher course on Lewis dot structures for mapping covalent and ionic chemical bonding when the sound of my name snagged my attention again. I looked up guardedly; it had only been a minute or so since Hodgins had offered his oh-so-supportive advice.

"Hm?" I asked Zach, finding that he was the one watching me.

Hodgins crossed his arms and pushed his feet against the floor to rock his chair. He looked like he was actually trying to prolong the conversation that I'd thought was already concluded. _Procrastinator,_ I accused when I noticed how he was grinning at me mischievously. That grin made me a little bit nervous. There was no telling what he might've been about to do – it could've been anything from a taunt to a threat, in my experience, and although I desperately wanted to believe that the newest people in my life were above that, a history of being beaten down physically, verbally, and emotionally took a toll on one's perspective.

"This juice not up your alley, Gossip Girl?" He mocked friendlily.

I huffed quietly and looked down at my pages pointedly. "I'm just eagerly awaiting my return to the stifling confines of my hotel," I drawled, voice dropping lower at the end and paying less attention to him. I was trying to send a message without being rude.

Judging by his reaction, which was to put his hands up and reluctantly rotate his chair back to his work station, he got it loud and clear. My posture relaxed slightly – it was still a little surprising when my wishes were respected without the use of aggression being used to back them up.

I moved on from the Lewis structures and onto the exceptions of the rule to nonmetals binding to metals, but it hadn't been very long before the quiet of the platform was shattered yet again. This time, it was done by Zach, who shot bolt upright in his chair and blurted, "You can teach me!"

Impulsively, my neck snapped up when he talked loudly, so I saw that he was staring right at me. "I can what now?" I asked with trepidation, staring at him cautiously and holding the book a little tighter.

"You can teach me how to flirt," Zach rephrased, his voice taking on a stubborn, mulish quality that made a quiet groan fight to escape my throat. His brown eyes locked on mine meaningfully, trying to convey hope and – _wait. No. Are those-?_ They were. Zach was enacting the 'puppy dog eyes' trick.

I shifted in my chair and pulled my legs down, putting my feet on the floor. "I'm really not a good teacher," I excused evasively.

Aside from how odd it was that someone was asking _me_ for flirting advice (least of all _Zach_ ), I just was not comfortable with flirting. Thankfully, most of the flirting aimed in my direction had only been since I was around thirteen or fourteen, and given that I'd been in school with people older than me, not many had been interested, even in high school. Since graduation, my experience with flirtation had been the demented version that I personally liked to refer to as 'harassment.' Flirting invited and encouraged attention, and the last thing I had ever really wanted to do was encourage someone to pay more attention to me – so not only was the principle discomfiting, but I had virtually no experience.

I just didn't want to admit that. I wasn't insecure about not having a significant other, or not having ever been on a date, or not wearing makeup… but I did _not_ want to admit that I'd never flirted. I was seventeen. For Christ's sake, most people flirted when they were in their early teenagers with their friends, and then got twice the practice when they started doing it with their crushes.

Zach was like a dog with a bone. Now that he'd gotten the idea in his head, he refused to let it go. Personally, I chose to believe it was because he wasn't aware enough of social cues to notice that I was uncomfortable.

"I'm an excellent student," he vowed instantly, writing off any concerns I had with my teaching technique. "I can learn anything, regardless of how poorly it's presented."

 _Wait a minute. That is not what I meant._ I could explain things just fine, but before I'd so much as narrowed my eyes, I remembered that I didn't want to get involved, and challenging his assertion that I was a bad presenter would only drag me further in.

"Okay," I said indulgently. "But I mean, I'm not really-"

"What, kid?" Hodgins smirked, sticking his nose in where it didn't belong yet again. He was like a leech, attaching himself to any disturbance within the lab, just so he wouldn't have to focus on getting his paperwork done. "Scared of admitting you can do something normal?"

I closed my mouth with a click of my teeth and glared at the entomologist. _Thanks for that,_ I almost snarled, before I forcibly relaxed and recalled that it was a joke. Just a silly, stupid joke, not meant to offend. I just… I wanted them to think I had abnormal hobbies, like I'd told Booth. I didn't want them to think I was some weird, freak brat who didn't know how to do simple things that practically everyone knew.

I set my jaw and ground my teeth. Hodgins had just made my decision for me. I couldn't back down from a challenge like that without raising more questions than admitting I didn't know how to flirt would've. Even Hodgins would have noticed it being out of character to let a remark like that go unheard. If I proved I could do something "normal," there would be less curious inquiries about my past, I reasoned.

I stood up from my chair, turning the book upside down and resting it on the one I'd been using as a foot rest. The spine faced the ceiling while the cushion held my place for me. "… Say something about my eyes," I told Zach, walking over to stand beside his chair. About two feet stayed between his desk and my leg.

Zach looked up at me with a perplexed expression. It was kind of cute. "Why?" He questioned.

I blinked. _Are you…? Yep. He's serious._ "To flirt with me," I replied, trying not to sound too exasperated.

Zach looked very, _very_ uncomfortable as he surveyed my eyes. His gaze left mine and wandered to my left cheek and lips before he swallowed thickly. Had he started sweating, I'd have just told him to forget about it and not give himself an anxiety fit.

The student held his hands uselessly on his lap, clueless what to do. He fidgeted and the chair squeaked. "They're… very symmetrically-positioned on your face," he offered, holding his breath for feedback.

For a long moment, Hodgins and I both stared at Zach with complete _what the hell_ expressions. I held my hands out at my sides demandingly and Hodgins looked as if he was suffering from severe second-hand embarrassment. The scientist turned pink and he covered his face with his hand, propping his elbow up on his table.

Zach looked between Hodgins' reaction and mine, then cringed. "Not good?" He guessed dejectedly.

I didn't really want to hurt his feelings (he looked a little crushed), but one of the things life had firmly ingrained into _me_ was that a legitimate perception of your own social skills was vital to getting along with others. As long as Zach _knew_ he was socially inapt, he was less likely to try to do things he didn't understand. At that moment, I was seriously concerned that if he was offered supportive feedback for… whatever _that_ was, then he might do it again on someone less accustomed to his behavior and have the police called on him.

"That was less 'flirty' and more ' _I want to drag you into my dark, windowless van,'_ " I brutally deadpanned.

Zach winced and held up his hand to indicate me. "Your eyes are blue," he offered.

 _Well, I mean… that's true… it's not flirty, but at least it's not nearly as creepy._

I took a deep breath and realized I was probably going to have to change my strategy. At his work station, Hodgins covered his mouth and started to giggle while he watched the comedy demonstration unfolding before him. Zach turned his face down to his computer. Because I was standing while he sat, I could look down in mild concern and see his ears turning red.

Something motivated me to stand up for him. I nodded towards Hodgins and scoffed, "Hey, you wanna take a turn, Happy?" Hodgins' eyes widened and he shook his head fervently. His laughter ceased.

After a second, during which Zach got his blush under control and rediscovered his determination, he looked back up to me with more frustration. "What did I do wrong?"

I leaned against the railing beside his desk, putting my hands behind me to wrap my fingers around the highest silver bar. It was easier to face Zach, and this way, he didn't have to crane his neck as far to see my face.

"Tell me something I couldn't see with a mirror," I prompted. For the second time, it struck me how strange it felt to be coaching someone on how to flirt with me. At least Zach wasn't a horny sixteen-year-old, and Hodgins didn't have a camera.

Zach's brows drew closer and he opened his mouth to say something, stopped, and bit his lip. After considering me thoughtfully for several seconds, he hesitantly admitted, "I don't understand." Even Hodgins looked sympathetic to Zach's defeated and upset tone. It wasn't just that he was having difficulty applying it; Zach truly didn't understand even the principle. "I can't see more than you could see with a mirror."

"Um…" I tried to think of another way to explain it. "Well, the point of flirting is to show interest. Don't state facts, give compliments," I proposed. "Anyone can say what color my eyes are, but only someone somewhat interested in me would bother to get my attention and take time out of their day to specifically say they like something about me." Which felt like a foreign concept, but if this was what I had to do to pay them back for their kindness and hospitality… I could deal with feeling ridiculous for a few minutes.

"Like this," Hodgins intervened, clearing his throat. "Ahem. Holly, your pale skin and black hair make you look like a vampire."

I shut my eyes, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and fought not to scowl.

"That's flirting?" Zach checked with me.

"I don't feel flattered," I assured him, opening my eyes and glowering at Hodgins, who was proudly chuckling.

"Alright, fine," he kept snickering. "Um…" he cleared his throat again and pinched the inside of his wrist to stop giggling at me. I noticed, but I let that one slide. I could always bug him about something else. "Um… you're wearing your hair differently," he said, gesturing to his head. "It's nice; it brings out your cobalt eyes and makes them shine. I love that about you." His voice got soft and sweet and his eyes a little entranced. A few seconds after her finished speaking, he shook his head and his tone changed again. "Except _not,_ because you're seventeen."

 _Oh, good, I'm not the only one who thought that was a little distressing._

Hopefully, it would be a given that Zach wasn't supposed to throw in something like Hodgins' last comment. He and I were much closer to the same age, anyway, so given the context, it shouldn't have been as awkward if he ever managed to successfully flirt.

"Close enough," I grumbled. The brunet's head was tilted and he kept looking between us like a referee, his right hand occasionally moving as if he wanted to take notes. "Just – don't ask if she's from Tennessee," I told Zach.

"She's from Minnesota," he automatically responded.

Hodgins snorted. "No, man – it's a line," he explained.

I flicked my eyes over Hodgins and then back to Zach and patiently explained why it was a line he shouldn't ever use. "Except the punchline implies that it's okay to 'rate' women." Most people – Naomi probably included – would know the punchline from the intro, and at that point, it was on Zach if he ended up with a sore face.

Zach's frustrated face made a return with a vengeance. "I don't _want_ to rate her," he told me insistently. "I just want her to stop being angry with me."

"Look…" I sighed and held my hands out to stop him before he got more upset. "It's a social skill. Those come with practice. Just be polite and respectful. If she wants you to flirt, odds are she feels like you're not giving her enough attention. Tell her she's pretty, kiss her cheek – whatever works for the two of you. Just don't lie and say you like her shirt if it's actually terrible."

"And sound amazed when you ask how she's managed to hide her horns so well," Hodgins chipped in.

"And don't listen to Hodgins," I amended myself, who laughed quietly and smiled at his own wit. "Can I go back to my book now?" I asked them both, looking over at Hodgins, dismissing him as useless to me, and turned my questioning eyes to Zach, who I felt was more likely to be kind.

"Embarrassed, Blue Eyes?" Hodgins teased, still finding the entire uncomfortable ordeal to be hilarious.

"For you, yes," I said flatly. The man covered his chest with his hand, acting like I'd offended him, and sniffed while he turned back to his computer. _Finally._ If I'd known that was how to get him to shut up and stop screwing with my attempted 'lesson,' I'd have done it a while ago. I took Zach's lack of answer as an affirmative to my plea and turned around, walking back to my chair and picking up my – Brennan's – book. "I don't like flirting," I complained. "I don't know what made you think to ask."

Zach looked back to his computer, although his expression wasn't much improved from when I'd asked him what was bothering him in the first place. "I assumed you would have a lot of experience," he offered by means of explanation, his tone already getting spacy as his concentration drifted elsewhere.

Before sitting down again, I tightened my grip on the chemistry book and stared at Zach. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, a little insulted.

When he heard my irritation, Zach looked up. Realizing he'd said something wrong again, he justified his assumption hurriedly. "I thought people flirted a lot with you because you're very beautiful," he defended, leaning slightly away from me.

I covered up my surprise as I sat down, relaxing. So he hadn't really meant anything by it. It was still all too easy to assume that people thought the worst of me, even this particular collection of people. _Especially_ this collection of people, with the right provocation, because they were so much more privileged. Higher education, better housing, better reputations, more finances, collegial respect…

It occurred to me that Zach had finally gotten something right. The warm feeling in my chest wasn't just because I was no longer standing underneath one of the ceiling vents.

" _Now_ I feel flattered," I commented quietly so that Hodgins didn't hear. Oblivious, the entomologist continued with his task at his desk, but Zach looked up quickly from his monitor. I felt his eyes on me for a long minute, during which I went back to my reading, before he looked away.

Curious, I picked up my head to check out his reaction. He had a small, proud smile on his face. Though it fell gradually as he became enveloped in work again, the satisfaction I'd gotten from it remained.


	2. On the Wall

**_On the Wall_**

 **Summary: Booth thinks that Holly should hang her high school diploma, but Holly has reservations. They can't come to an agreement until Brennan gets involved.**

 **Timeframe: Any time after "The Woman in Limbo" and before "The Girl in the Gator."**

"He- _ey,_ what's this?" Booth reached grabby hands into the small box of my things and took out a small, modest black photo frame. I recognized it instantly and started reaching for it to take it back. "Ooh! Awarded to Holly Kirkland. This should be good. Recognition from the Geek Society?"

Laughing at his own joke, he turned away and stepped back behind Brennan's couch. I crossed my arms and huffed, bowing my neck to look down into the box. It was full of things I had barely touched since moving out of the Kirkland family's two-story home and into my old hole-in-the-wall apartment.

I didn't have a lot of things. I wasn't a very sentimental person, so I didn't need to have a lot of material belongings to be content with what I did own. Brennan had a comfortable apartment for one, but when she filled the guest room with a second resident, it became a little cozier. The boxes Angela had brought over from my apartment were ones she grabbed out of convenience while I was in the hospital, and then, once I was improving and she and Brennan and everyone else had decided I was going to live with the anthropologist, I had to gather the rest of my personal affects.

I wasn't proud of the place I had been living. I rather hated it. Especially after having been in Brennan's apartment and knowing that Hodgins owned an entire _estate,_ I was a little ashamed of it. Rationally, I understood that my living conditions didn't reflect who I was, but it was still hard to keep that in mind when I'm relatively new to being on the receiving end of compassion.

Instead of taking the time to pack things, I just threw everything I could into boxes and was ready to go in less than twenty minutes. I'd unpacked my essentials in the guest room, but kept everything else spread out sparingly. I didn't plan on being in Brennan's guest room forever, and the less space me and my things took, the less obtrusive I was in her home.

Recently, though, Brennan had decided that should change. I don't know as she realized that the main reason I still had my stuff in boxes was because I was ready to leave at any time, because she didn't always grasp the subtler things, but she had come to speak with me, noticed the cardboard, and said that unless I planned to save them for an experiment on the strengths of different household acids, she couldn't imagine why I was storing them in my bedroom. I took that to mean that she wasn't a big fan of them.

So, come the next weekend we had a day off, I had stayed behind while she went to a bookstore and the post office. It was just coincidence that Booth happened to swing by with Chinese for dinner, and even though I told him that the scientist was out for the evening, he still insisted I not make him eat all the take-out on his own.

"Yeah," I snappily confirmed, reaching aggressively back into the box. _Why did I bring these into the living room again?_ Surely he would've been less comfortable going through them in the place where I slept. _Maybe if I secretly stuff some tampons in the next box, and let him snatch those out, he'll stop being so nosy._ "Geek Society. We have pins, T-shirts, and pepper spray. Can I have that back, please?"

The next thing I found was a silver-chained locket. I'd almost forgotten it existed. I swiped my thumb over the front. _NYC '00_ was engraved on the sterling. It had been a gift. I still wasn't convinced that it hadn't been stolen before it was given to me, but I kept that detail to myself and had held my tongue when it was presented. I shoved it in my pocket swiftly, before Booth could see it or ask any questions. The necklace was probably the nicest gift anyone had ever given me (one of the only gifts, actually) and I wasn't very willing to share it or its history.

Booth's interest in the photo frame was what kept him from noticing how I hid away the locket, so even though I was still displeased, I was relieved that that had been dug out first. I was a little touchy about what was in the frame, but I was touchier about the locket.

The agent stopped grinning. "Whoa. Hey." He swiped the front of the glass with the side of his hand, gently clearing away a layer of dust. It was weird to see him out of his federal agent gear (suit, gun, badge) but it _did_ make him a little less intimidating. "Kid, this is your _diploma,_ " he stated the obvious in awe. "What's it been doing in there with all that junk?"

"Excuse me, this is not a box of junk!" I protested. This box held the only sentimental artifacts I had. Everything else was clothes or other necessities, or history things, like the papers Aaron left me with or the letter he left me with on Christmas when he enlisted. "This is a pathetically small collection of the few memories I actually cared enough to not throw out."

"Good thing you didn't throw _this_ out," Booth stated, holding up the framed diploma. "Seriously, why is this in a box?" He turned it around and leaned it back against his chest, the certificate facing me.

"Because it's too big to hide under my shirt," I deadpanned.

Booth groaned his complaints and handed it back to me. I gently laid it on its side in the box. I didn't know what I'd do with it, but if nothing else, I wanted to at least have the nice record that I had graduated. If I ever managed to pay for college, I would like to have the proof I made it through twelfth grade first.

"Something like that should be _displayed!"_ He held his hands out like he was framing something with the 'L' shapes formed by his thumbs and forefingers, aiming his boxed vision at the nearest wall.

I snorted my disagreement, but didn't dignify it with a verbal response. The walls were busy enough. They had the degrees and awards that Brennan had won, along with a clock, a thermostat, and a nice, small mirror laid into a dark blue panel of traditional African-inspired art. It looked classy and stately as it was. There was no need to add to what was already there, and especially a high school diploma. It didn't fit the theme of everything else already hung.

"Come on," he argued when he saw that I intended to do no such thing with it. "It's already framed up, nice and even!"

"Only so the paper doesn't get damaged," I returned sharply, urging him with my tone to just let it go. It wasn't a debate I was prepared to back down on. The less there was to remind anyone of my accomplishments – or lack thereof, if the highest degree I could boast was from high school – the better.

"It's the grown-up version of hanging your artwork on the fridge!"

"I never hung artwork on the fridge," I snapped back, reaching across the box to hook my hands on the other side, pulling the side towards me against my waist and effectively blocking it off from Booth's grabby hands and pushy insistence. "My creativity wasn't _encouraged._ It was _stifled._ That's why I turned to hard science instead of music." As if to point out that I'd had a passion in music at one point, I tipped my head towards the black violin case lying across an armchair until I knew what to do with it. I hardly used it anymore, mostly because I didn't have the time, partly because it was an apartment where others would be disturbed by the noise when my odd hours did permit me to play. I didn't have the heart to sell it – I'd worked hard to stash away the money to afford it.

Booth stopped and moved back away from the couch. He started into the kitchenette while I exhaled slowly, letting my shoulders relax. He seemed irritated with me. I almost felt bad, but it wasn't like it was an unreasonable stance for me to take. Was it? He _knew_ I was a private person, and he, of all people, should understand why I might be hesitant to mark my territory or take up unnecessary space.

In a terse silence, the two of us kept moving like parallel ships, taking care not to intersect our trajectories. I found a way to group my things so that the small stuff was together in a condensed space that wasn't as tacky or ugly as a U-Haul box, and the larger things I decided I would move under my bed, with the exception of my violin, which I didn't want to stuff under furniture. It just felt wrong. I could put it in the small closet instead and stand it up on the wide end of the case to fit. With the inside padding, the pressure wouldn't be a problem.

I carried everything into the guest bedroom I now used and slipped the locket into the zipper pocket in the violin case, then sorted everything where I wanted it. The small things were put in the drawer of the bedside table. It took me just a couple of minutes now that I had refreshed my memory of what my inventory consisted of.

When I was done, I surveyed the room and had to admit that it looked much nicer without the boxes in the corner, and it felt homier to have my closet _and_ dresser a little bit fuller. I ran my fingers over the worn cloth of sweaters and the rough denim of much-washed jeans. Although the clothing I'd bought on my reluctant and mulish trip with Angela was nicer, newer, and fit better, there was a nostalgia to the clothes that I had been able to afford for myself off my salary as a barmaid.

Finally, I brushed my hands off on my pants and went back into the living room. "Hey, do you want to-" I stopped midsentence before offering some ice cream from the freezer. The apartment was empty, and I hadn't even heard the front door.

To distract from how unreasonably upset I was that he had left without telling me, I fixated on how I hadn't even known Booth had slipped out of the apartment. "Either I'm getting too comfortable, or he's a ninja," I muttered, shaking my head and deciding not to get the ice cream.

I still wasn't used to eating as often as the team expected of me, nor was I used to having as much; most of the time when I ate extra snacks or larger meals, it was for someone else's benefit, because it made Angela and Hodgins and Booth feel better. They never liked to think about me struggling to provide for myself, so it was like they wanted to compensate for it now.

"I'll tell Dr. Brennan you came by. Drive safe," I snarked in the direction of the door before turning and retreating into my bedroom, semi-content to change into pajamas and curl in with my phone and Wi-Fi.

* * *

The thing I had always thought would be the worst about sharing a residence with another person was the control I'd have to give up. Living with Brennan was neat because, even though I backed down before even expressing my displeasure, I rarely had anything in my habitat that I had a legitimate objection to. She liked Cindy Lauper, freeform jazz, some occasional eighties' power-punk, and, on rare occasions, rock. I preferred alternative and pop rock, but I had headphones and a phone that connected to the internet, and besides, I didn't mind her music taste, either. She liked books, which I had never protested against, and she was very organized.

Where people were concerned, the only houseguest she had that I _didn't_ welcome in at least kind of warmly was her boyfriend, David, whom still rubbed me the wrong way. We had been polite friends of convenience for our mutual friend's sake, but one time Brennan had left the room and David had taken the opportunity to ask me some… _weird_ … questions. Although I told my roommate about it, she said that he explained them to her as a query about psychological vulnerabilities to certain cults, and then she was done with it, not wanting anything to do with psychological studies. I wasn't sure I bought it, but knew that she could kick his ass with no problem if that was what it came down to.

The week after I cleaned out the boxes in my room, we had Booth over as a last-minute guest and subjected him to healthy food. Brennan pressured him into eating the red lentil soup and took the cornbread away from him before he could have all of it, and I quietly snickered at his disappointment. It was a sort of revenge for his last visit. I wasn't too picky about my food, because I knew that I was lucky just to be fed. Brennan could feed me whatever she wanted; as long as it wasn't snails or caviar, and it wasn't poisonous, I'd probably try it at least once.

I suppose it was likely in revenge for laughing at his distress that Booth looked up over the table at me and declared to Brennan in a smug tone, "You know the kid's got her high school diploma stuffed in a desk in the bedroom?"

"It's not a desk," I objected when Brennan turned her head to look at me, mildly surprised but not overreacting about it. I lowered my voice when I specified rebelliously, "It's a small table."

"Desk, table, blah, blah," Booth shook his head and made the corresponding motion with his hand. "I think you should hang it up." I glowered at him through the steam of the slightly-spicy soup while Booth pretended to be presenting his argument to Brennan. "Isn't there some sort of anthropology mumbo-jumbo you can throw in here about why it's a good thing to hang it? It's framed and everything already."

"To protect it, I already told you," I said, shifting uncomfortably as Brennan put her spoon down, a clear sign that she was prepared to speak more than just a few words.

If I'd been sitting closer to Booth, I'd have tried to kick him under the table.

The brunette very carefully considered what she was being asked, canting her head thoughtfully before she gave Booth what he'd been looking for. "Anthropologically speaking, the display of trophies is a cultural norm that teaches developing youth the value of standing out. We do it as adults to boast the ways in which we're superior to our competition."

"But some animals do the opposite of standing out," I countered. To her, my voice was deceptively cheerful. I was glowering at Booth.

Brennan nodded her agreement, then reminded, "But humans are not one of them." She picked up her spoon to resume her dinner. "I think you should mount it," she offered, applying her concepts to the discussion they originated from. Booth looked smug, not at all put off by my ill wishes towards him. "You're no longer in a situation where drawing attention to yourself is detrimental to your health, and it would make Booth feel better."

Both of us stopped our contest of wills and looked at Brennan in surprise. "Since when do _I_ feel bad?" The FBI agent wondered.

Brennan seemed startled that he didn't already know. "It's a societal expectation for parents to display their children's trophies with as much pride as the offspring who earned them. You insisted on keeping Parker's diorama, and you keep his report cards from his preschool on your fridge." I became the smug one as Brennan analyzed his behavior. Booth started to chuckle, clearly about to refute what was happening. "You were never able to display Holly's accomplishments because she wasn't a part of your life before. This is the first tangible achievement of hers you've been able to do anything with, so you want to make it visible to your fellow parents, prove to your coworkers that you have the most successful progeny, and attract potential suitors to her."

Booth and I both stared at her. She pointed out a place on the wall that used to hold a picture, but the glass had shattered as a result of the heat of the kitchen bomb Kenton had planted behind the fridge, and the frame and its contents had been moved.

"There would work," she suggested calmly. "Or, if you're as unattached as you say, then perhaps Booth could take it home with him. Although that would be strange, as it would then be on display in an area where you don't live."

 _Right, because_ _ **that's**_ _the only strange thing about what you just said._

Booth coughed and pushed his bowl away. "So… you're saying that because I want Holly to hang up her diploma, I'm trying to set her up?"

Brennan laughed, eyes sparkling humorously. "Well, unless she can find a way to continue your genetic line without a mate, then yes! It's the biological imperative to preserve your lineage." The idea of single-parent human procreation was so laughable that she thought Booth's question was a joke.

I quickly looked across to Booth. "I'll hang it up if we stop this conversation _right now,"_ I compromised, mostly because this was veering into a territory I did _not_ want to put a single foot into.

He stood up quickly. "Deal!"

Both of us rose to take care of our dishes. Brennan remained at the table, unsure what had changed. "What? Was it something I said?" She asked obliviously.


	3. Girly Things

**_Girly Things_**

 **Summary: Holly and Parker play with cosmetics and Booth isn't a huge fan.**

 **Timeframe: Set after "The Mother and Child in the Bay."**

Booth had a weekend with Parker on a day when we lined up a visit to go see a new movie. Parker wanted to see a film with animated rabbits that he saw a preview of on cable. When we got back from the matinee showing, Booth started planning for dinner and responding to a call that he got while his phone had been turned off. This left me and Parker without any parental supervision, and I settled myself on the sofa while Parker turned on the TV and started to listen to Nick Jr as he played with toys.

I didn't feel like a sister as much as I felt like a babysitter. I wondered if that was ever going to change, or if there were too much of an age difference between me and my half-brother.

Parker was excitable but still a well-behaved child, for the most part, so he probably would have been fine left alone for a while. Still, I set up something to do for myself in the living room. I grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen and gathered up everything Angela had bought for me and wanted me to try to get it over with, made a nice place for myself on the coffee table, and sat on the ground.

I had several different colors of nail polish to choose from. I wondered which one Angela thought would be my favorite. Nail polish wasn't something I'd ever been super into before, but since the artist really wanted me to use it, I decided to be indulgent. They've done more than enough for me, so the least I can do is put some temporary color on my nails. I think Angela thought that if I did enough of the things she liked, then we'd find something we had in common that we could leave the lab to do. Almost everyone else has interests that at least overlap with mine and we can find something out in the city to do, but with Angela, I have fewer mutual fascinations.

There was a black nail polish I think Angela would only ever wear on Halloween, but she must've picked it out for me because of how many of my old clothes were black. I bet that translated to a preference. In truth, I wore so much black and other very dark colors because they were best at hiding things like animal fur, dust, and stains. I had to be careful with my water bill, so I laundered my clothes as little as possible. The odds of me actually liking that color on my nails were low, though, so I chose a low-profile lavender color, shook the bottle for about ten seconds, and then broke the seal.

I found out quickly that painting my nails was harder than I thought it would be. It was hard to make an even coat of paint, and it was even harder not to get it on my hands. I had to stop halfway and push my cuticles back a bit so it didn't look so rough and ragged. Then there was the issue of not knowing how many coats I was _supposed_ to put on. None of the women who had been in my life before taught me these things – either they didn't care or they, like Rosemary, just didn't feel it was necessary if I didn't already do it.

When I was almost done with my second hand, I felt eyes on me, watching curiously. In another context, the sensation would've made me antsy. The apartment was safe, though, and those eyes were from a bright-eyed little boy who was just really inquisitive.

Parker crawled closer, abandoning his toys. He had a plethora of them here, as well as at Rebecca's, and he really liked combining his car sets, his toy soldiers, and his little doll figures. He peeked over the top of the coffee table and set his chin on his folded arms, watching me while I finished up with the lavender polish and blew on my nails to help them dry.

"Hey, Parker," I said after he'd been silent for a while. I observed the polish and saw it still shining, so I opted to let it dry for another couple of minutes. "What's up?"

Parker plaintively asked, "What are you doing?" He'd been very patient just to get an opportunity to ask that question.

I smiled slightly. Parker always made me smile. He was such a sweet kid. He had tantrums and an attitude sometimes, but he was always contrite afterwards and usually apologized when he was too bratty. "I'm painting," I answered, showing him my purple-ish fingernails.

His eyes went wide. "You're gonna get in trouble!" He told me, hushing his voice dramatically and looking down the hall towards Booth's room. _Are you going to be my sentry?_ I thought with amusement. "You have to paint just on the paper! Where's your paper?"

I laughed a little bit. "No, honey, this is okay. This is special paint, it's made just for my fingernails. Daddy won't be upset." I hadn't thought about that. Parker got to get his face painted at the fair over the summer, and after it was washed off, he tried recreating it with his mother's Sharpies and was scolded thoroughly.

Parker frowned contemplatively, though that might have been a big word to ascribe to someone his age. "Why are you painting your fingernails?" He asked next. I remembered someone griping about kids always asking _why_. I was interested to see how much information Parker would need to be satisfied, and also a little interested at how many questions I could answer before I started getting exasperated.

"Angela says I should try it," I told him, knowing he'd remember her. Angela was the fun one, he said, and Brennan – Bones, as he knew her – was the smart one. "She says lots of women do it, and that I might like it."

"Why do lots of women do it?" He persisted.

I opened my mouth to answer but paused, stumped. "I don't know," I replied honestly, shrugging. "I'm not enjoying it very much. Maybe because it looks pretty?"

"It _is_ pretty," Parker admired, picking up the bottle I'd been using and turning it around to look at it from all angles. "How come Daddy doesn't paint _his_ fingernails?"

I imagined Booth with a dark green nail polish, or with a patterned design that looked like camouflage to match the uniform he would've had to wear in the army, and chuckled. It just seemed silly, and I bet he would balk and bluster at the suggestion. "Hetero-normative social expectations and toxic masculinity, probably," I answered, knowing those terms were above Parker's head. Men weren't allowed to do girly things, and it was conventional in our culture for women to use beauty products.

Parker scowled and tried to repeat my words, but they weren't familiar enough to him for the kid to figure out how to make all the sounds. He gave up after a few tries. I smiled indulgently at him until he lost interest, and then he put the lavender bottle down and started putting his little hands in the rest of the things I'd gotten from Angela, pushing them around and checking things out. I uncapped my polish and started applying the second coating while keeping an eye on him that he didn't make a mess.

Parker picked out a tube, bit at the plastic until it ripped, and then tore it off. He pulled the cap off of a sleek black lipstick and looked at the protruding dark pink tip with a frown. I kept glancing between my hand and his and when he turned it upside down and shook it, I intervened gently.

"Careful with that," I cautioned. "It'll stain the table and the carpet."

"What _is_ it?" Parker asked. As soon as he heard the word 'stain,' his first impulse became to rub it on himself, leaving a smear of pink color on his hand. I rolled my eyes fondly while he giggled. "It's a marker!"

 _Oh, no._ "It's lipstick, actually," I corrected, reaching across the narrow table and gently taking it away from him before he got any ideas. Parker smacked the cap back into my waiting hand with a laugh and I put the lipstick aside.

"Oh…" He immediately leaned over the table again, fascinated by the other things. This time, he chose larger bottles. One was the size of a bar of soap, and the other was a cylinder with alternating stripes in different skin shades. "What are these?" He asked, weighing them both.

"That's a moisturizer," I pointed, "And that's a foundation." The moisturizer I actually had every intention of using; unlike most of the things Angela had bought, the moisturizer had purpose I could fully agree with. I wasn't sure I'd enjoy dolling myself up with cosmetics, but keeping my skin hydrated seemed like a good plan. "The moisturizer makes my skin stay soft, and the foundation makes my skin look all the same color."

Parker put down the moisturizer quickly and instead started to more closely inspect the foundation bottle. "Why is your skin different colors?" He asked, looking from it to my face suspiciously.

I smiled again at his curiosity and resumed my fingernails' treatment. "Why is _your_ skin different colors?" I rebuffed. "When you draw people with crayons, do they ever look real?"

Parker giggled loudly and smacked a small hand clumsily over his mouth, glancing in the direction Booth went again like he still thought we'd get in trouble. "No, silly," he said, stage whispering after he moved his hands. "They're drawings!"

"And part of the reason they don't look real is because skin is never just one crayon color," I explained. Parker himself had new smatterings of freckles, thanks to the time he, Booth, and Rebecca spent outside in the summer. I considered pointing them out and showing him his reflection, but Parker started to sniff the squirt nozzle on the foundation. "Don't do that," I cautioned. The foundation was harmless, but it wasn't a habit to encourage. "Some of these things can make you sick if you sniff them." The nail polish in particular came to mind.

Parker smiled at my hands as I put them down on top of the paper towels for their final drying time. "Your hand looks really pretty," he admired. I raised an eyebrow and criticized my own job. It was not an excellent, precise application. "You're all shiny!" Excitedly, he bounced and asked, "Can you do mine?"

I smiled at him invitingly. "Sure I can," I said easily. "You can pick the color."

I was careful just in case my nails weren't dry while I pushed all the nail polishes into one place so that Parker could look at all of them. He browsed through the black, lavender, a red, a pink, a pastel green, and two different shades of blues before he picked up the red one.

"This looks like a fire truck!" He decided, his eyes lit up eagerly.

"Yes, it does!" I agreed, feigning the same enthusiasm in my voice. "I like that color, too." I shook it, opened it, and rubbed off the dripping polish on the inside rim, then patted the paper towels to have Parker bring his small hands over them. "Hold still."

* * *

Booth came out and started dinner while Parker and I were working on prettying up the little blond. After we finished, I put all the nail polish and makeup away in my bag to make sure Parker wasn't tempted to make any messes, and I balled up and threw away the used paper towels. By the time we could smell the hot dogs grilling from the kitchen, my brother was using the forward-facing feature of my phone's camera to take selfies and look at the finished products on his face. He wanted to play with the makeup and I figured that it was just a couple hours before bedtime, anyway, so there was no harm.

"Kiddos!" The FBI agent yelled from the kitchen. Something heavy landed on the dining table. "Dinner!"

Parker looked up from my phone, over to the table, and brightened exponentially. He had such a wide smile. "Ooh! We're having mac and cheese!" He put my phone down so quickly that I winced and was grateful to Hodgins' foresight to also buy a shockproof case.

Parker raced like a whippet to the dining table and pulled himself up onto one of the seats. He was too little for his feet to touch the floor. I smiled, shaking my head, and fixed up the arrangement Booth usually used. While the adult got our dinner ready and finished up stirring the macaroni, I shooed Parker off the chair, put down one of the thick couch cushions, and then lifted Parker under his arms back up on top of it.

Parker was already helping himself to the bowl of chips Booth had set out. "We have here a true classic of family dinners!" The agent was proclaiming proudly, carrying the pot of macaroni with an oven mitt wrapped around the handle. "Holly, do you like chips or- oh, my God." He caught a glimpse of his son while finishing setting the table.

Parker beamed at Booth and touched his round cheeks excitedly. "Holly let me play with her things!"

"I see that!" Booth sent me a helpless, pleading expression. I shrugged. "What is on your face?!" He asked, his voice strained as he tried to keep it in a high falsetto instead of yelling.

"Makeup!" Parker answered, oblivious. "I'm colorful!" He patted his cheeks, where some blush made them look extra pink, and closed his eyes and pursed his lips to show off the other colors.

I got Booth's attention again and assured, "I swatched them all on his arm first to make sure there were no allergies." Then I gestured to Parker. "It's just blush, eyeshadow, and lipstick."

"You put makeup on my son!" Booth accused me, shocked. I nodded – he was a little behind the times, wasn't he?

"And nail paint!" Parker squealed, excitedly showing off his hands with the crimson color.

"Polish," I quietly corrected.

Booth shook his head and leaned over the table, putting one hand down on it and holding the other out to his son indicatively. "He can't go to school with his nails like that!" He told me, frustrated.

I hesitated. Having been about to sit down, I hadn't thought anything was really wrong. Sure, he was surprised, but I didn't expect him to be _upset._ What was the big deal? It was literally just nail polish and some powders. Parker may not be an adult, but he's not an _infant,_ and I've seen kids his age getting professional manicures before!

"Why _nooooot?"_ Parker whined at Booth, his face falling in disappointment.

"The other kids will pick on him!" Booth answered Parker's question while still looking to me emphatically. "You know, he's – he's wearing girl stuff!"

I pursed my lips as it became clear Booth wasn't going to start yelling. This was frustration, but not real anger. And the frustration was directed in the wrong place. _How about instead of being upset that your son is wearing something traditionally feminine, you be upset that other people raise their children to be brats and antagonize femininity?_

"The makeup will wash off easily," I told him curtly. "And the nail polish is fun." I turned to Parker and softened my voice to seem serious, but not argumentative or stubborn. "Listen, Parker, there is _nothing_ wrong with girl stuff. Anyone who's mean to a boy for wearing girl stuff is mean because he thinks girl stuff is stupid, which probably means he thinks girls are stupider than boys, and that's not fair. Who's the smartest person you know?"

"Bones is!" Parker answered immediately, just like I knew he would.

"Exactly," I agreed. "Do you really care if someone mean who would bully other people wants to be your friend, anyway?"

"No," Parker replied, looking determined and proud of himself. "I don't wanna be friends with someone mean!"

I held my hand out in a closed fist and Parker hit his knuckles against mine. "How about we girl up your nails even more after dinner and weed out the jerks?"

"Yeah!" Parker shouted and started chanting, mimicking the tone from the characters in the SpongeBob movie he had been listening to. "Weed 'em out! Weed 'em out!"

I chuckled and Booth sat down, recognizing his defeat but still not seeming very pleased with it. Gendering things was stupid, I'd always thought so. Women wear clothes that are traditionally masculine all the time – such as pantsuits – and men can totally rock makeup, too, as evidenced by Robert Downey, Jr and Matt Bomer. Parker was just a kid, he didn't need to start worrying about whether or not he should enjoy things that were traditionally for girls.

While the blond got into the food and started shoveling macaroni and cheese into his mouth, I spoke to Booth in a slightly lower tone while filling my plate. "He's in _kindergarten,"_ I stressed to him. "He doesn't need your gender norms."

Booth sighed. "Yeah, but I don't want him getting picked on."

"I think you should be more concerned that you're inadvertently teaching him that boys who wear nail polish and makeup _will,_ and thereby _should,_ be picked on," I stated pointedly. Children learn from adults. If Booth treats it as a fact that boys who wear nail polish will be bullied, then Parker could easily start thinking that boys wearing nail polish _deserve_ to be bullied, because that's the way the world is, when no one deserves to be bullied, especially not for something so stupid and trivial.

After we'd been eating in silence for a couple minutes, I decided it was safe to try to bother Booth again. "His fingernails are going to have more glitter than a strip club," I said teasingly.

"Holly, _no,_ " Booth groaned.

Parker swallowed quickly and yelled, "Holly, _yes!_ I _love_ glitter! We're never allowed to use it in school, not since _Trina_ dumped it into her shoes," he sulked, clearly still bitter about Trina's poor decisions. I smirked triumphantly at Booth, who put his head in his hands.


End file.
